Page 21 of The Alien in the Archive (Galactic Librarians #1)

21

THORNE

I wake in a different world than I lived in yesterday.

Not really , not in any tangible way. This is the same shadowy space, the same old and uncomfortable couch, the same tattered blanket and old, cold body.

But at the fringes of my mind, and lingering in the air… Page .

The faint psychic imprint of her presence lingers on the edges of my awareness, warm and insistent, like sunlight through a crack in the shutters. She’s not even in the Obscuary right now—no, I would know if she were—but it doesn’t matter. She’s still here, imprinted on my skin, tangled up in my sheets, in my thoughts.

Last night was a mistake. A beautiful, maddening mistake.

I scrub a hand over my face and groan.

Ashlan chirps from the foot of my makeshift bed, antennae glowing a questioning silver. He watches me with a look that can only be described as judgmental.

“What?” I mutter, voice rough. “Here to pile on the condemnation?”

The lumivix blinks slowly, unimpressed, before hopping down and trotting off through the curtain. I roll out of bed, shivering slightly. I thought I’d gotten used to the cold after all these years—I’ve grown cooler and cooler since the last time I drank Elixir—but Page has brought warmth back into my life in a way that makes things colder without her. My alcove feels smaller than usual, its shadowy corners claustrophobic in the wake of last night.

I can still see her perched on the desk, cheeks flushed, lips red and kiss-bruised. Gods…that one indulgence did nothing to sate my desire.

I pull on a shirt, the fabric soft and threadbare. It does nothing to help with the cold. Nothing does. My body is a live wire, sparking with residual energy from our shared climax last night. Her scent lingers in my lungs, sharp and intoxicating, and I have to force myself to focus on something— anything— else.

Page is trouble. Not just for me, but for herself. She’s curious to the point of recklessness, hungry for answers when she doesn’t yet have the right questions.

And I’m the fool who’s already given her too much—and I won’t stop.

I try to read—and immediately lose focus, seeking out Page’s mind. I catch glimpses of a lecture from a Merati scholar before I stop probing, wanting to give her privacy. If she needs a moment to breathe, I understand…

…even if she’s mine—my mate; mine to touch, to have, to claim.

I get up with an irritated groan.

This won’t do.

I need something new to read.

That’s how I find myself navigating the Labyrinth beneath the Obscuary, heading toward the main library. I don’t often leave my hiding place, but I know the ways— otherwise I wouldn’t be able to eat, to get supplies, or new books. Today, I have a particular quarry in mind.

She embarrassed me when she pointed out my lack of knowledge of human courtship rituals.

I intend to remedy that.

The library’s section on Human English literature is nearly empty of visitors as I slip out of a gap between two bookshelves, Ashlan on my heels. I stick to the fringes, avoiding the central pathways to steer clear of researchers, prepared to use telepathy should anyone catch sight of me. No one pays me any mind; they never do.

Once I’ve found the section I’m looking for, I scan the shelves, my fingers trailing over the spines of human books. I don’t have a translator, so I stumble a bit—but one has plenty of time to learn languages when you’re thousands of years old, and English is one that I’ve been practicing since I met Page.

Most of the books aren’t what I’m after—histories, sciences, a few about something called “cowboys”—but when I find them, it’s obvious. I pull one of the books out, titled A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Warfare , and find a lurid painting of a male and female clutching each other on the cover.

I pull out a few more titles, each cover more provocative than the last, and flip through the pages. The language is flowery, the advice laughable, and there seems to be very little emphasis on the female’s consent. The emphasis, instead, is on the male’s conquest: the brooding duke, the rakish pirate, the mysterious stranger with a tragic past. Each one woos his intended with a combination of smoldering gazes, whispered promises, and declarations of undying love.

It’s absurd.

…and I can’t stop reading.

There’s a scene where the duke—shirt torn, brow glistening after riding his beast through the rain—presses the heroine against a wall in some shadowy corridor. His dialogue is…elaborate is one way to put it. He speaks of her beauty, her strength, and how he is utterly undone by her presence. He kisses her senseless, his hands wandering with a precision that borders on choreography. And then:

“He laid her bare beneath the silken moonlight, his touch both tender and demanding, as if he sought to imprint himself upon her very soul.”

I snort, earning a chirp from Ashlan, who’s hopped up onto a nearby shelf. His antennae flick as he sniffs the book with curiosity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, holding up the book to illustrate this is research . “Do humans actually behave this way? It’s a miracle their species survived this long if this is how they approach mating.”

Ashlan tilts his head, clearly unimpressed.

I flip a few more pages. The heroine, despite the duke’s questionable seduction tactics, seems utterly enraptured. Her inner monologue gushes about his rugged good looks, his “velvet voice,” and the way his touch sends shivers down her spine.

I frown, running my tongue along my teeth. Does my voice qualify as “velvet”? I consider probing Page’s mind again, suddenly anxious to find out if her internal monologue matches the one described here.

Still, something about it makes me pause. The way the heroine responds to his words, the visceral pull she feels toward him…

I reach out to lean against the shelf, a sudden surge of heat racing through me. I feel all of that for Page; I want to do things to her they describe in this book. I want to taste her, to explore every inch of her body, to?—

I slam the book shut .

“Humans,” I mutter. “Ridiculous.”

But I don’t put the book back.

Instead, I’m soon walking back into the Labyrinth with a makeshift satchel full of old paperbacks, liberated from the forgotten human literature section.

Back in my alcove, I dump the satchel of stolen books onto the desk. Ashlan hops up immediately, pawing at the topmost title, Surrender to the Night . I swat him away gently, pulling the book out of his reach.

“This is not for you,” I say.

He chirps, clearly unconvinced.

I sink into my chair, the worn leather groaning beneath me, and flip the book open to a random page. A paragraph leaps out, a heated exchange between the heroine and the mysterious stranger who’s been haunting her dreams.

"His lips hovered inches from hers, his breath a warm caress against her skin. ‘Tell me to stop,’ he murmured, his voice a low growl, thick with desire. ‘Tell me to stop, and I will walk away.’"

My stomach churns with fascination, heat climbing into my chest and making a home there. The writing is…melodramatic. Overwrought. But there’s something about it that feels oddly familiar. The tension, the restraint barely holding back a tidal wave of emotion, the way every word feels like a last gasp for sanity.

It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous.

And yet…

I keep reading, skimming through scenes that range from laughable to downright baffling. The hero—some brooding loner with a penchant for standing dramatically in the rain—spends an inordinate amount of time gazing at the heroine like she’s the last star in the sky. The heroine, for her part, alternates between fiery independence and inexplicable swooning.

Not unlike Page, I realize .

I shake my head.

And keep reading.

The thing is…there’s something to this. Something beneath all the flowery prose and improbable plot lines. The characters might be laughably exaggerated, but the emotions? Those feel real. The longing, the vulnerability…

I watched her like that, didn’t I? Not brooding in the rain, but in the stacks; wanting her so badly it ached.

I think of Page again. Of the way she looks at me—sharp, curious, unflinching. The way she doesn’t shy away, even when she should.

The way she let me touch her last night— asked me to touch her—as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I close the book, my chest tight.

“This is a terrible idea,” I mutter to myself.

Ashlan’s antennae flicker as he curls up on the desk beside the discarded book.

But it’s not like I’m going to stop.

I pull another book from the pile— The Pirate’s Bride —and flip it open. The cover art is as garish as the first, but the opening scene grabs me: a storm at sea, the heroine standing at the bow of the ship, her hair whipping in the wind as she faces down the hero, a scarred and dangerous captain.

She’s not swooning this time. She’s furious. Defiant. Her dialogue crackles with wit and fire, and I find myself laughing as she backs the hero into a verbal corner.

I make it halfway through the book before I realize I’m enjoying it.

Not just for the research, though that’s the excuse I’ll cling to if anyone asks. There’s something refreshing about the straightforward intensity of it all. The characters want each other, and they don’t waste time pretending otherwise.

It’s not subtle. It’s not nuanced. But it’s honest.

I set the book down, leaning back in my chair. The alcove feels a little less claustrophobic now, the shadows a little less oppressive. Ashlan stirs, his soft purring filling the silence.

For the first time in what feels like centuries, I don’t feel completely alone.

Page will be back eventually. I can already feel the edges of her presence brushing against mine, a faint echo of her thoughts reaching through the distance. She’s restless, her mind buzzing with questions, her curiosity as sharp as ever. Maybe not tonight…but she’s thinking about me.

I’ll have to be careful when she returns. I’ll have to keep my control, ensure she doesn’t rush things. Because I have to be sure she actually wants me.

But for now, I pick up another book.

For research. Of course.